


I Need To Hit The Bottom

by Nimitztlazohtla



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Insanity, One Shot, POV First Person, Pyromania, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimitztlazohtla/pseuds/Nimitztlazohtla
Summary: The Xanthous King ruminates in his prison.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	I Need To Hit The Bottom

People who try to delve into and answer the "why" are my least favorite kind of people. I'll scream it to the heavens until I am hoarse. Priestly boot-lickers, people trying to sell you things, Gods and Lords alike. That “why” is exactly what distracts from the vital “if”, and “how”, and it was people who asked  _ those _ questions who were cast into this cold and lonely prison, left to rot for all eternity.

Well. Good job then, I guess. I wouldn’t have let me roam free either.

"It's asinine, all asinine." I’m mumbling into my palms. "Another trick by the Gods, another curse... Another..."

The fair lady Priscilla is not awake to listen to my ramblings, fast asleep in her tower not too far off. I would be talking her ear off right now, but people often need reprieve from the inane ramblings of the resident magical pyromaniac, that much I understand. And still I try to imagine speaking with her, because at the moment she is the only other coherent soul in this wretched enchanted painting. "Prithee Jeremiah," she would say, in that godly inflection. "Speak not so ill of mine forebears. Yea, their deeds as a whole may be... questionable... but as a whole they have done much for the world. They lit the sun, they propagated humanity, and brought warmth and light to all places yet untouched by fog."

Then she would smile and say at me like a mother to her drooling child, "They gave us everything we had."

I wring my thorny whip in my hands, snarling into the overbearing moon above. My heavy crown teeters and threatens to fall. "Well, I don't have to listen to you, don’t I, my lady? We were given to, but were we not both taken from? Your birthright stolen from under you, for the sin of your father? My—my family from me, for my sins? Eheheheheh. We’re victims! We are all victims in this! We’re victims together!"

It's kind of funny if you look at it right.

I'm pacing through the snow now. The chaotic fire's already brewing within, broiling over the edge. I feel the heat course through me. "The Currssssse," I hiss. "I never wanted the Curse. I should have died for good. But your puny ‘Lord’ gave it to me, and then when he couldn't kill me, he locked me in HERE. HERE where he throws his heretics, his secrets, his shames, his  _ family. _ I SHOULD BE DEAD!"

I roar and I spew my flame from my palm, and it congeals and explodes, and the whole damned courtyard is ablaze. The snow sizzles away from the cobble beneath, the air itself wavers with the intensity of the heat, and any Hollow near enough to be caught is lit up like winter tinder.

Hollows. People like me, cursed with undeath, except they couldn't take it anymore. Wandering husks who gave up the world of the awake, because why  _ would _ they want to be awake? All who ponder that are never satisfied with what they find. Good souls once, too, who once thought much like me, or otherwise knew something about the nature of our world that they really shouldn't have. They'll get right back to wandering aimlessly around in several hours, after their accursed bodies heal their burns.

Anyways, that was why I never asked why.

Whoops. Did it again just there.

The flames die down and the cold reconquers it all, and here I stand amidst the broiling ash of my tantrum, shivering and exhaling cold fog. I collapse to my knees, inner flame quelled, and not for the first time I wonder what would happen if I, too, let go.

Would I be one of the strong ones, with a good subconscious grasp of my current skills and knowledge, if not my faculties? A true fiery terror to haunt all the Painted World? Or would I be one of those  _ other  _ Hollows, who wanders in aimless circles, walking into walls and tripping down stairs? A joke?

I'll accept nothing less than utter perfection. If the Curse wins over, I won’t be the one to let it have the last laugh.

Before I know it I'm smiling again. Finally I readjust my teetering crown. It stands on my temple inanely tall and heavy. I would love to see Lord Gwyn try and conjure a crown as magnificent as that which is so utterly and irrevocably mine.

"This is my house," I rasp, "And woe to the uninvited.”


End file.
